Have you ever tried to bully or harass? If not you, then who? I think somebody else are getting tortured at work, where his employer pays a salary. But if he is a student, he himself pays for school, where he feels pain. If you kick out him, what is left for him?

Since that time, I had suffered from keloids on my neck for twelve years. I had at times had a recurring nightmare of the look on her crooked face. If these were healed, would this painful memory obliterate from my mind?

Matsu had spoken between the lines and I actively had focused on scanning for meaning. Neither were not open-minded or optimistic. My answer never satisfied her. Even years later, I would never be able to devise the effective means to her own satisfaction; I had happened to hear about her: “It’s a little cruel, the way Matsu do to the students, who are men.”

*

On the last day of my practice, Matsu showed me the paper―“FINAL EVALUATION,” the title read. On a scale of “Excellent,” “Good,” “Passing,” and “Failing,” I scanned the categories: Behavior, Communication, Teamwork, Motivation, Documenting, Understanding, etc. My heart pounding, I shifted my gaze to the check boxes … All items were “Failing.” Maybe only one “Passing,” but it did not matter. There were obviously the occasion like rudeness in the early days, but it was very different now.

My real concern was for “Success” or “Failure.” The bottom of them … “Failure.” I panicked. I never heard that anyone failed in spite of making it to the end of their practice. Because of that I had been devoting my effort to passing it as a slave student, who could bow, apologize, and report every trivial thing I had done. The practice made absolutely no sense. Screw it, everything became meaningless. 

I started flashing back through all the time I had been at violations, discrimination or any other type of complaints against me. That was quite unfair. It occurred to me that after apologizing, she had been in a little bit better mood, but had once failed to expel me.

She did not explain why she rejected me; I felt my face going pale. After less than a minute, ignoring me with her determination, she approached Umeno, who sat at the desk within hearing distance where she would submit the paper that needs the boss’s approval. It dawned on me she was going to ruin me. Just the sight of her despicable face and her dead fish eyes, there being the staff enjoying talking with each other, drove me really mad.

I was about to scream and throw a huge tantrum. I could picture me in my mind, jumping out, hitting her face so hard that blood gushed from her gross mouth. If she is he, I could. I would knock him, hit him over and over again until his mouth stooped making any disgusting noise.

Resisting the instinct to ruin her, I was trying to relax and hold myself loosely and I saw Umeno look at the paper, tilting her head thoughtfully; I listened, absorbing as much as I could. Umeno seemed to point out that it needed modifying to all the items. Matsu’s eyes were cloudy and her mouth slack with emptiness. There would have be so much more she wanted to tell her but her face just twitched. 

Umeno handed it back to me.“Here you go, it’s up to your teacher to decide whether you success or not.” It was pretty abstract. Matsu was forced to correct several of them―from “Failing” to “Passing.” The comprehensive evaluation did not change. I could feel my fury at her rising once more.

The other students seemed to feel a sense of accomplishments, Whatever his level of them otherwise, I thought I was so much better than them.

Siting on a stool, I did not know how quickly time flew―the staff disappeared, except for the sound of Umeno and Matsu scuttling about. Then I would had wandered in the dimly lit staff room, feeling like I was forgetting something.

I had to be strong and patient, making me think that I was not a loser, who never gave up―I had achieved something challenging; preserving group harmony and saving face for those involved with me then keeping hopeful right to the end.

To show a sign of courtesy, I approached Matsu getting ready to leave. “Thank you very much over two months,” I bowed far deeper than usual. “Otsukaresamadeshita.” “You’re welcome,”she said flatly, as if to have nothing further to say, leaving the room where Umeno was working alone.

Over time I found myself developed an increasingly violent temper. I jumped to my feet, darting downstairs and looking for Matsu, who had as good as ruined me. At this time of night, the lights had been dimmed in the whole floors that was empty. I was standing at a point for a while. I did not know how long I remained there; at the same time it was significant period, I suspected I was likely to crumple my paper in front of her face … I laughed, as though I had gone mad, and with the back of my hand, I wiped my tears from my eyes.

The next day, Umeno handed me a card made of folded paper.

9:00AM―Following Matsusan

12:00PM―Lunch

13:00PM―Work experience

“This is to-do list. I hope you understand,”Umeno said calmly, in no way did she humiliate me. Rather she had wrote out of her kindness. I felt it was disrespectful to treat me as a child who could not follow grown-ups who was obedient the boss. I believed I have a free will and can take charge of my own destiny, but I was a bum here, to a certain degree she writes this stupid crap. “When you leave, please inform me of what your day today was all about.”

In Japan, there is the conventional foolish thing. Ho-ren-so, which means “spinach” in English. In short, “reporting.” Japanese companies spend too much time “reporting.”: morning assemblies, end-of-the-day assemblies and many other useless meeting are where you have to say your schedules, progresses and results. Moreover, you have to make reports about what you have done, even such trivial things that you think would never need sharing, that you fall into your boss’s hand.

Basically I was not permitted to act my own discretion and whenever I left my position, I had to tell someone like the staff that where I would go and what the reason was. Then as soon as I finished the task, I must come back to him and say“ I’m done” bowing. If you failed to do that, even once, you would make your boss uncomfortable.

However, the possibility had already occurred to me that I would succeed this practice unless I drop out, so I had decided not to withdraw from here. Like I had to get this qualification, no matter what. I thought in those days―withdrawal mean becoming a loser, as so many Japanese think, which drove me toward some kind of unspeakable perfection.

After Miya visited me, my assignment were reduced, and although I could save a little room in my heart, a new daunting task required of me. It is your duty to phone your homeroom teacher Tanaka, every single day. Give a report to your day. the division reader of my school, Mori—, ordered. “10:00 p.m.” Tanaka, who had worked hard all day, ordered, so I had got pretty nervous as the time approached.

Even if there was nothing unusual, I had to call him and I kind of made up the story, only to waste each other’s time. He was a workaholic with specialized knowledge, but I was not allowed to ask technical questions. It meant I should learn to be loyal, by doing as I was told―providing the reports.

In the morning, my DragStar engine stalled and the rain had started. The apprehensions grew darker; Japanese are obsessed with punctuality. If you are even one minute late, they think you do not have intimate awareness as a working adult. Maybe you know Japanese trains are always on time. Whatever the reason about being late, you have no excuse. Sucks. It was so easy for Matsu to put the blame on me.

The rain continued to fall steadily as I tried to start the ignition desperately. The devil would not want me to go to the practice. Deciding I should give up on the matter, I ran to the main road and looked for the taxis, which drove past me, but no vacant. Anyway I had been running toward the workplace, which was a couple of miles away from here. I was getting drenched when I realized it was too late to do anything and I slipped beneath the nearest eaves of a building. I phoned to my department to tell my situation in no time.

I charged at the locker room, dripping with rain. It was June and I was soaked with sweat, feeling restless. I pulled my T-shirt up over my head, wiping my wet hair and face. The skin on my neck felt itchy and I rubbed it with my couple of fingers. I was still rubbing when I opened my locker door, and I peeked in its small attached mirror―big, red pimples around my neck, my bangs getting thinner. These were most distressing.

Just as I entered the staff room, I saw head of the department Umeno sitting there. I apologized for having being late. “Your behavior exemplifies the attitude of the good student. You did inform us here you would be late. Besides, you have been reporting each day as I told you. It struck me as a great improvement on you. Good, good, please keep up the good work,”she reassured me.“Thank you very much,”I bowed. “I’ll do my best.”

My effort have borne some fruit, though I was not as satisfied as I would have liked. I just learned that disagreement is clear path to breaking harmony of those involved in the discussion, where pressure to conform squash even the slightest deviation from my perspective, ever since I had been here for my practice; I realized how miserable I had been enduring harassment like Japanese-style bulling. Nevertheless, apologizing and apologizing and apologizing.

Hair wet,  I made an apology to Matsu. Oddly, although she gazed at me emptily for a few second, she did not curse me, maybe because arriving late let me be honest―it was my fault and I had accepted it. Of course, she never said anything nice.

I had a mind to make an apology to all of the staff in the morning assembly. And trivial as it seemed for having being rude to Matsu, and indeed, that is no common sense in Japan, and if I did not do so, everyone would pity my ignorance. In the staff room, my posture was perfect upright. “I do apologize for not being proper attitude as a student and for the inconvenience this has caused all of you. Thank you very much for your understanding,”I bowed formally.

“By the way, you got a tan, didn’t you?” Matsu asked, never having had such a daily conversation with me. Does it feel safe for her to talk with me? I hold out my arms, looking at them. I hesitated but said it anyway: “To refresh myself, I went away on my motorcycle … ” She stared coldly at them, then turned away, sighing quietly and walking away.

In fact, I could not let myself go much―I read two self-help books before the chaos descends. Then I went to mountains and rivers―grasses and trees―and the tumulus and the dam. That were so nice I could somehow forget my troubles.

I reminded me of her words: “Do you take the easy way out, eh?” If you enjoy what you do, she means you have not so much work, but if I had said “I studied very hard,” would she have been okay? Definitely not. At least I should have said so. I had made her cringe, like she had just caught sight of something loathsome. Honestly, I hated it when her mouth was slack with emptiness.

A few days after I restarted my practice, My school teacher, Miya, was going to visit me. Not because I was a bad student, it was the rule for the teacher to do each student one time during their practice period. I had had nothing but a premonition that …

Early in the evening, I waited anxiously for Miya in the staff room. When I noticed her entering my department, I got to my feet from my seat. She was grinning and bobbing her head, and said things to a staff. A middle-aged woman in the light-colored pantsuit, taking care of herself, was standing in the doorway. I approached her, and instead of paying any attention to me, she looked around gingerly. Then, out of nowhere, Umeno stepped up to us; Miya bowed deeply and gave her some gift of a classy paper bag. I knew that her visit was primarily to build a good relationship with Umeno, who was the department manager.

We were sitting silently in the small room and waiting for Matsu. When she entered from the door, I straightened my shoulders with my head bowed. And Umeno started to speak about my progress and Miya nodded several times. I apologized again for having been very rude to Matsu, but there was still a kind of tension between us.

“Matsusan told me that you were out of control. You have been in trouble and were a kind of tyrant. I must support her,”Umeno said; Miya glanced at Matsu, nodding sympathetically. I thought it sucked that Miya ditched me there before I at least had a chance to assert myself. That was why I had an uneasy premonition. Inside the small room were Umeno, the manager who considered me troublesome, and Matsu, the case advisor who cooked up things about me, and Miya, my school teacher who tried to get along with them, all women without me.

What could I do in a woman’s world where that is the norm? Probably there is a proper way you are supposed to deal with them. We Japanese people have a conscience in the same way Westerner do. However, we have lived so long under the great pressure to conform, like we do not have an individual self.

“You need to think about whether you really want to study here, and I want to know what you think.” Umeno looked at me soberly and Miya did not say anything, grim and tense and righteous. I used to know how to feel―anger, chagrin and hatred. These were lessons best forgotten. The more I would say my candid opinion―which would sound like a freaky person is complaining or protesting.

“Please give me another chance to learn here, I’m going to make exertion,” I looked Umeno in the eyes. “I take a vow not to make Matsusan discomfort on me.” To show a sign of my remorse, I looked down and kept my eyes fixed at a point on the floor until she would forgive me. What else could I do?

I was a young man with a Japanese man’s understanding of things at that time I must get this qualification that brought me a stable life. Moreover, I thought that I could start my life over until I was in my twenties, and fearing that if I failed in my practice, I would be a part time worker forever, and my parents paid for school fee for an unworthy son.

Umeno asked Matsu: “You will forgive him, won’t you? He’s reflecting upon his things.” Matsu was fazed a little. “If Ksan is okay with me,” she pinched her lips together, while Miya looked at her with concern.“Of course. You have been keen on teaching me. I really appreciate you.”I said. And then she turned away, made some excuse and left the room.

Finally Umeno gave me an ultimatum. “Let’s reduce your assignments. You aren’t at that level yet.” I used to be filled with chagrin at having been so misled and I felt great pride in discharging my duty over my practice. But I had ceased to feel. “I’m so sorry to come here as an immature student,” I bowed. Miya looked anxious, studying us. Perhaps she conjectured that I did not really think so and her perspective was entirely different from that of Umeno―I am not stupid. In my school, she was a blight, cheerful person, but this time she was careful not to be intrusive.

“Don’t worry. I’ll support you as far as possible so that you’ll have to succeed in your practice,” Umeno said, calmly, Miya nodding and nodding with her hand on her knees, as if she had been carrying out her mission. I knew that Japanese kept nodding even when they did not agree.

To see her off, I walked with Miya toward the entrance of the building, following a few steps behind. She had been just sitting there, in a strange kind of limbo, which seemed to make her feel vaguely guilty. As far as I was concerned, she was usually chatty. I waited and waited for her words to come. Nothing. With passing by several people―the hum of conversation―the silence between us was profound. 

I was not used to see this jittery teacher in the light-colored pantsuit that was not suited her, and I looked out the glass windows at my DragStar, the only one I could trust. Its metallic silver tank shined in the sun’s shaft. I admired what an imposing figure he was. At one point she looked back and smiled at me, trying to convince herself that her visit was effective. And then, nothing, Blank. I prompted her. “How about Tokumitsu? My good fellow. We hadn’t been in touch for long.” He was so eccentric person I thought this kind of soul-sucking practice was not for him. “He dropped out,” she glanced behind her at me. I grew depressed or nervous, knowing I would never see him in my school.

When she pushed the entrance door, she recovered her sense of being a teacher.“Your practice will be going well, won’t you?” That was just empty words.“Yes. I’m sure I will,” I said, reassuringly. We feigned that the exchange was mutually satisfying. I thanked her and watched her walk off under sunset-pink skies.

I was a loser. At the night I got really cozy inside me. My phone rung, so I picked up, “Ah, K. This is Tanaka speaking,” he was my homeroom teacher. “Good afternoon, sir.” “Don’t go. From tomorrow,”he said. I felt exhilarating to hear that, as if I released from pressure or bullying. “You’ll have to rest. Okay?“ “I understand, sir.” The moment he hung up, I collapsed back on the bed.

When I awoke to a beam of intense sunlight peeking in through the curtain in the window, it was twelve and I felt oddly at peace and for a while stared at the ceiling. I was hungry. I wondered if she would have allowed me to have eaten two take-out bento(lunch box) at lunch and if she had viewed me as lazy and hedonistic. I could not afford to the time I ate breakfast or dinner, having been busy writing the reports. She worked tensely all the day, this meant she took her stress out on me for some reason. Sleeping spoiled you? Even eating? Sleep is to the brain eating is to the body. Silly Matsu. It was tempting to forget the whole stuff and I simply went back to sleep, wishing to be kind to myself and others.

The next day I wrote a polite letter of apology to Matsu, describing about me, how rude I was, how uncomfortable I made her, and how I would like the opportunity to learn from her. I did not know it was my true feeling, but the letter was at least for show. I thought that if I pretended hard enough it would actually come true, and I would be nobody. My tactic was just to say “I understand” or bob my head or smile. Umeno would expect cheerful obedience of me and I knew that she accepted everything you said.

Naturally the division reader of my school, Mori, knew I was in trouble. He was in his early forties―well-worn white coat, combed-back gray hair, and a grim expression. He looked foolish when he attempted to stand upon his dignity by walking arrogantly along the hallways―mostly we students were too scare to talk to him. It occurred to me that he reprimanded my fellow Kita. He was dozing off when Mori taught a class. He was edging forward and stopped in front of Kita.“Orenitaisuruboutokuka?” “You are blaspheming against me, eh?” he asked in a wrath voice, glaring down at him. The atmosphere in the room was frozen, we straightened in our chairs and he threatened him to get out. After all, Kita repeated a year, and he was the very one who set an example.

I was sitting across from Mori in the reception room in my school. “Who do you think you are?” He looked me in the eye, so I turned away. “Look into the eyes, when you talk with anybody.” I tried to look at his horrible eyes. My face would have twitched and started to crumple with my timidity. “That’s exactly what your problem is … So you didn’t communicate with Matsusan well … You’re just a brat. You look down on her, eh?”he imposed his one-sided opinion on me. “You’re absolutely right, sir. But … I … don’t … want to be like her. She is not the epitome of the professionalism.” Shit! I blew it; I should not have said that. I was confused. “I think I was really a brat. I must obey her,” I made me humble. “You need more than that to explain it. That’s why you are not good at communicating with people … Brat … you’re just a brat!” he surveyed me with a scowl. I knew that this bastard liked to show what a dignity his presence represented for me.

The next day, we were to meet in front of the building, where I studied as a student trainee. By exercising his power, he had helped the troubled ones get back into the practice. I did know that he tried to maneuvered himself into a much higher status. He intentionally used two different faces well, severeness for formal and kindness for informal, which touched the stupid students. His strategy appeared to win the whole school over to his side. The great majority of the students had been with nothing but admiration for Mori. I did not know why. It was like people aligned themselves with the tendency of those around, so it was complete nonsense to ask what is so great about him. When a new cafe was going to open in my school, we students voted on its name. I had felt very silly indeed ever since then. And foolish as it might seem, the signboard over the door of the cafe said “Mori’s cafe.”

“Nice weather today,” he grinned. “I wish we could go somewhere to hang out, don’t you think?” How very odd. But just his way I thought it would be. “Yes, sir,” I mumbled, not knowing what to say. I had been in a frenzy for him cursing me, and I was now supposed to apologize to Matsu. And then he asked me about the staff, so maybe I replied awkwardly. When I approached the entrance of the building, he said: “I believe in you. No problem.” “Thank you very much, sir,” I winced, thinking his behavior was gross.

I straightened and then I bowed deeply. “I’m truly sorry for offending you.” “I was surprised when I received a letter from Ksan,”said Matsu, preparing her work in the staff room. We sat around in front of her desk. “Anyway I was surprised. I thought you would never come back.” I had fallen silent. “I wonder if you really okay with me. I worry about me teaching you,”she said. “Everyone is scared of you, eh?” Mori leered at me. “You’ve been trying too hard. Decompress.” I shrank back―I thought she would want to assert that I neglected my own assignment. Instead, she sulked and turned away before the cutting words from her mouth. 

At one point, Mori, enjoying showing off his power, crossed his legs and arched his spine, which annoyed her―late twenty with the conceit. “I mean, you should take a break,”he said, looking at me and Matsu gaped, as if she pronounced “huh” like a sigh in disbelief. “Five days. Rest. Stop, Do nothing. Embrace your hobby, something you looked forward to. Feel refreshing. You could meet your friends or take a short trip. Or else go back to your parents … Don’t study,” he said. “Forget studying.” There was something authoritative and deliberate in his speech that made her dumb. Japanese like her does not give you time to rest. Like resting is a sin. “I’ll leave it up to you,”she said glumly, trying to finish this conversation. “The way forward. Everyone is expecting a lot from you,” he gave me a gleeful little grin while her cheeks was distorted concealing her discomfort.

“Let’s have ramen,” Mori ordered me. “Ah yes, sir. I’ll accompany you.” I rode my DrugStar and followed his BMW. I had been a man who challenged authority, the way it was likely to backfire on me, but I was now taken in by him, for fear my feelings toward Mori have begun to transform. Where was I? I was so tense I did not have any appetite. And then I remembered. Trying too hard. Decompress. When you are trying too hard is you are actually thinking that you are making it.

He was sitting across from me eating ramen. “That did’t sound like fun. She is critical, eh?” he asked. “Yes … ” I mumbled.

I had become a troublesome person. I bet you are wondering what kind of poor student I would be. Well, I would. You would. Everyone would.

From out of nowhere Matsu asked me as usual: “Is it that?” She liked this phrase, too. It means that my report has not been up to much. Her jaw tightened, above her lips was a pustule, a pus-filed whitehead, coming from something truly evil that always stressed out me. I did not answer because it would not be good to upset her—as if I made up some excuse.

When I was with Matsu, I was under great pressure. Sighing with a goofy face, she continued to criticize, criticize, criticize, and it seemed to go on forever, although actually it was approximately three weeks. And then one evening, she gave me feedback on my report. “Have you ever referred to other students’ reports before?” There were other people in the dark spacious room, too, guiding a male student traineee―my other case advisor, a sly witch, Sawa, who always harmonized with Matsu, who had taken advantage of her position as Sawa’s senior.

I could see Matsu walking to Sawa, taking her away to a shadowy corner quietly. That is just the way Japanese young women who whisper between each other give a room a conspiratorial air. They kept sticking together conferring with their back to me while I patiently waited and waited on the opposite side of the room until they would have me full attention. And then, they left the male student behind and brought his report to me. Contain my fury at them, I had decided the situation was hopeless.

“Look at his report,”said Matsu, riffling through the pages. She was not reading, not trying to. “He must’ve studied very hard. He’s made a good job of it.” I could see a horrible grin on Sawa’s face, as if she had fostered a talented person. When Matsu was done admiring it, she showed me and I turned the pages. There were a few blank pages. I scanned the pages―his contained less and not quite accurate. His report was thin, but mine thick. She took his from me and closed it, perhaps thinking the same I did, but sensing the atmosphere, she went off on some nonsense about how I needed to learn from him. I I did not give a shit because I had gained the best grades on my reports in my school.

Umeno was an old-timer, so she the manager of the department. I realized that she was not a bad person. Actually, although she had been thoughtful and kind, it always sounded much worse when it got too much. When I was alone, she talked to me as if I had some trouble with Matsu.“Things are going well?” “So far … I guess,” I said, not wanting her to broach the topic of Matsu. “I wish you could go along with Matsusan,”she said, scuttling in the staff room. “You don’t do as she tells you, do you? She told me she didn’t understand how to teach you … Ksan, I’d like to hear what you think.”

I was sure, just how misguided the present situation is. “I truly feel sorry for her at times. As you say, she is trying very hard to teach me what I have to learn. I really appreciate… . But somehow she seems to be in ‘denial’ about me. I am afraid I’d piss her off again with my saying.” In my frustration, I blurted out my mind, and she did not say anything else, trying to get somewhere in a hurry. There must be what she would call a folly. I supposed.

The next day, I tagged along a staff to study by observation nodding and smiling, during which I was supposed to give my own opinion. I do not remember what I said, and she explained her thought to me. “Ksan, ‘I’m not going to deny you’ or offend… .” It was kind of weird when I heard her words that did not sound like her own. As I observed the other staff, he talked to me. “ ‘I’m not going to deny you’… .” I heard someone call me. “Excuse me. ‘I’m not going to deny you’… .”

Stuff like this―the way she shared with all staff my misinformation that I am so negative about everything―drove me crazy. Umeno was manager, but not smart. The correct understanding is “Matsu is harsh and mean to me,” which I said to Umeno in a euphemistic way Japanese make them humble. But, I decided I would go along with stupid-ass crap about me, trying to remain composed.

You can call it pressure to conform. We Japanese live in a bully culture, which tortures a person, especially a freaky one. If once you are a victim, no matter how much effort you make, it will backfire on you, even if you do a pretty good thing. At the time, my mentor had told me that honest and obedient students would go well or else we would have troublesome thought. Errors. Or else … Withdrawal would be a better choice, but at that point I was too immature to comply. It was just like,“No, no. I never ever want to be a loser.”

Then I could picture my fellows being in the smoking area. If I withdrew, they would say for sure: “K couldn’t have got along with people. He always hung back and kept to himself. Writing is the only thing he’s good at.” I hated pity, despite my pitying Matsu. On the other hand, over and over the phrase like “Writing is good” swelled like a wave. My fellows could not help appreciate my writing that she insulted. I wish you could tell that I have been treated unfairly in the here and now. 

Matsu is not much. She was truly pathetic. A nervous wreck. Not only did she try to wreck me, she provided me with challenge of having to forestall her plot every time I observed her work. Equanimity like aloofness lingering between us, she had made me feel fear that I had felt myself trying to figure how much she and I had in common―aloneness on being stoic―this gave me the total creeps. I had never seen her talking about anything but work, as if to be uninterested in others. I was not going to be like her.

It was so easy, from on high, to harass me and say, “I didn’t think you’d show up.” It was like she hoped so. What should I say when she would cursed me, maybe things will get worse? I had been very patient until now. I had had so many questions as a student trainee to study here. There was not much in the way of learning, just pressure to conform. All the chaos I had been subjected to throughout the weeks came back to me. Don’t mess with me. I found myself tossing my report onto her desk, and I could see her nervous look in her eyes―I was the screwup who could not say: “I’m still inexperienced. I’m so sorry for any problems that I have caused you.”

I was in great agitation during the day. I thought I was going crazy. A paradoxical feeling built up inside me, as though I messed up and resented her further. I was not going to let her abuse her power. I shall never, never forgive this bitch. She would never know anything about what I endured or how hard I was trying!

That evening I no longer listened to her feedback and there was no need to be so pessimistic.

“I’m done.” I threw my report on the floor.

January 2020

I detested her. She is scum. I despise myself for having got involved with them at all; there was no need to keep rehashing my past―she was ugly and she gave me the creeps. “Huh” or “Eh” with a deep, brief sigh popped into my mind and at the same time I felt an intense irritation with her, every time my neck itched. I has had keloids on my neck―big, red and swell on my neck. People used to ask what was wrong with me, like I had had scars of burns to something.

It had been ten years since I was told that these bombs is not healed, but I wrote to a plastic surgeon about my keloids, and I got a reply from the doctor the next morning, which made me grateful. Fairly quickly. Any good doctor would not do so. Feeling hopeful, I read the mail: “Regarding the treatment of hypertrophic scars and keloids, I had surgeries…”

*

May 2008

In the mornings, I put my report on her desk. Later in the afternoons, she asks with a goofy face: “How many hours did you sleep last night?” I was a student trainee and Matsu a case advisor. If I say “Two hours,” she asks “What the hell is that?”and if I do “No sleep,” she “Huh. You’re a liar.” and if I “Five hours,” she “Do you feel like doing anything? Other students have been studying so hard, all the day, without sleeping. You goof off, eh?” 

Her mouth with buckteeth lights up in acrid tones, and it is creeping me out even though I find it what a dope. I can tell by the way she looks at me that she has sensed I am such an airhead, and if so, then what is the right answer? she also had the way of appending a phrase to “Huh” or “Eh” with a sullen face, as if to be at a loss of words, which really pissed me off. It was like she gave me countless jabs in my heart.

Goof off? This bitch. I pride myself on being stoic. She would be the first and last person to say that, like I am lazy, which touches my deep core of rage. Actually, come to think of it, she worked hard being aloof with her stoic endurance, which made her moody at all hours―it felt like there was something inside her that wanted to wreck someones life.

In the evenings, Matsu would appear, telling me to come. Then she asks bluntly: “What’s this all about?” I can see my report on her desk in the middle of nowhere. There would be silence that indicated anything I say would be just a waste. After a while, I hear her sigh heavily. Then she dose again: “How many hours did you sleep last night?” There would be another short silence; I start to explain the contents of my report. “No,”she says. “I mean, how many hours did you sleep last night?” Shut up! Fucking bastard!

She never have much to do with her co-workers nor was she popular. Only occasionally an agreeable and kind man made effort to be nice to her, but she had no sense of humor, ignoring him in a high-handed attitude. Just so you know. There is a type of ugly that men never find attractive.

In Izakaya, a Japanese pub, was the welcome party for us students. For some reason―perhaps Umeno, Matsu’s manager, had given an instruction to her―she was sitting awkwardly on the tatami mat across from me and sulking, while all around her people sat laughing and talking in little groups.

“Let’s have a glass,” said a man. “Cheers!” “Cheers!” everyone cheered loudly. One by one I took turn touching glasses, the bottom of my glass on my left palm, shifting my weight forward and bobbing my head. Naturally I was about to touch a glass to Matsu, who raised hers much higher to me than to others. The bottom of hers shoved the top of mine.

Everywhere people were enjoying themselves, seating around a long rectangular table, and I listened for the CEO in my line and Matsu sat sullenly in front of me. Ugh. I detested her. She did not to try to talk to anyone; the others did not do to her, either. No one came to her. She deserved it. Would I pour you a drink?”I asked. “No, thank you.” She said, throwing a look of cold fury. How dare this uppity bitch? What’s come over her? Always.

There was nowhere for her to go, no mechanism to hang out with her co-workers. I was glad to see it, feeling both contempt and pity. I was drinking my beer eating from plates, not wanting to her look that disgusted me. And then out of the blue Umeno nudged me in a whisper. Glancing at her, I could see Matsu’s patience from solitariness, boredom, and aversion to me, pretending to fiddle with her phone. “Of course,” I said randomly, feigning that I was busy picking at a grilled fish with my chopstick and I was pleased that Umeno pitied her: there was nothing she can do and she never laughed. I got obsessed by my crazy thought this kind of woman was supposed to stay single forever. Ha-ha. She deserves to do.

Eventually Matsu never talked anyone and was about to leave the pub, and Umeno pushed me, and finally I followed her to the exit and she put on her shoes in a hurry and I said with my bowed head: “Otsukaresamadesita.” It does not mean either “Go to the hell” nor “Get lost, bitch.” It means, like thank you very much for today. She said it too, without looking at me, shoving the short sprit curtain away disappearing.

A few days after the party, I was a student trainee and Matsu a case advisor, as usual. She gave me an order: “You are supposed to wait at the staff room, while I talk with my client,” “I understand,” I could tell it was something important, so I walked off, all the way to the room. As I waited for her to come back there, I could see Umeno looking around uncomfortably, walking up the passage. There was an urgency in her manner and she noticed me, getting freaked out. “Ah, here you are,” she said, approaching me. “Matsusan’s looking for you.” “What?” I said, astonished. “Don’t have your own way. I can’t deal with you anymore. I’ll call your school teacher for help,” she said, not loudly but quite distinctly.

Damn, I thought. Matsu. Fucking crazy.

I would never meet Yamada again unless I sell my condo. Seller and buyer. That’s all. I am not good at building a relationship with a person. I took out my iPhone and opened the contact list―banks, credit companies, several embassies, a few hospitals, a real estate agent and my parents. I am happy I do not have any friend. No loneliness. I never pretend to be strong. I was a maverick who acted alone, eating, shopping, reading books, riding motorcycle, running in nature and traveling all over the world. From time to time I interact with people where I am for the time being. And good-bye. Maybe forever.

The tactic has works very well, since there was the worst month when I felt like I was going to die. I was at twenty two, once upon a time, when l first worked for the company. I had worked in three shifts―work until midnight, sleep, work during a day, sleep, work early in a morning, collapse onto the bed, then drinking party and karaoke, which new employees like me was forced to join. I could not keep up with everything; it felt like there was something inside me that destroyed me.

My superior coworkers yelled at me at every moment. Always, Every single day. I did not hate them, but I hated myself―I was really useless and came to loathe even being there, therefore being alone made me ease my distress.

When I first moved to Nagasaki, I had refused to live in the company dormitory, where the fellows might go in and out of my room. However, I later found myself more unsettling despite living in a condo―they drove up for a visit without calling. I disliked drop-ins, and once I had turned off my cellphone when I heard the voice of my fellows coming up the hallway so that I can make up the excuse I was not at home.

Anyway I had been feeling a physical and mental discomfort. One night, I worked with my superior I got along with most. “K. Give me a ride home,” he said. “I want to ride your motorcycle.” That confused me because it took him one hour to get to his home and the following day I was going to be at work at three in the morning. I must get sleep, but my motorcycle, Dragstar, beautiful like Harley-Davidson, had drawn his attention. Eventually he gave up on, but he ordered otherwise, and finally I brought him to my condo. He just let himself into my room, sat down on the floor to watch TV and talked on and on, and in the following days, I was out sick.

That was why I deliberately avoided Japanese people overseas: Japanese mix up private and public. If I would bump into Japanese, he would say as if we shared the same values: “Are you Japanese?” “What do you do?” “How old are you?”“Are you married?”“Where are you staying tonight?” Then he would conclude: “Let’s walk around together.” No, no. You are too close!

But, it is easy for me to distinguish between Japanese and other Asians, such as Chinese, without listening to the language. Basically, Japanese prefer act as a group. You would see people, in clean cloths, in a huddle. In airports, they look around restlessly, assuming that they are superior to any other people in the world, however, and they walk with a hunchback, casting their eyes downward out of uneasiness or shyness.

The reason I left the company after a month was to preserve my dignity. It had been commonplace for my superior coworkers to call me “Slowcoach” or “Twit” or “Snail,” and although I fully realized the words was anything but affectionate, I felt raw pain that stemmed from my inability; my fellows got their job done quickly and enjoyed hanging out together after work. Because of that I blamed myself for not be able to do the same as most Japanese do.　

Japanese new employees often rant and rave: “I am in the ‘black kigyou.’ Overwork everyday. My boss abuses at me.” “Black” is not race. It means a kind of illegal. “Kigyo” is company. The three conditions that you are in what Japanese call the “black kigyou” are overwork, unpaid, and harassment. Perhaps you just think nobody is helping you.

Please calm down and look slowly around. You would find yourself surrounded by the competent persons making a lot of money. You could not have accepted the reality it was not kind of like what you think. It is just that your work is not up to much, on account of your being the new employee. As for the company, that is to say, you are a burden and a nuisance who just says bad things about it. In my case, my first company did not necessarily overwork me. Rather I had been working overtime voluntarily, feeling a little extra responsibility.

If you run to other responsibility and leave the company, you will also be in the “black.” Because you are new wherever you are. You should know better than to confuse “black“ with ability, and that small and medium-sized Japanese enterprises, as well as American ones, do not teach you from A to Z the way large Japanese ones do. What I mean, of course “black kigyou” actually existing, is that it is all up to you. 

For me leaving the first company was not completely dumb. I preferred it that I could be myself. After five years I changed career and started to work for a small company. At the time I was feeling hopeful and in the one-man department, where I took the lead and did all the work alone. I did like it that I could have a free will and take charge of my job and not have to worry about Japanese-style relationship.

And then one day, I attended a study meeting at a large company after work. It was really dull and dozens of young people were dozing off. After that, they were walking back to their department and chatting and joking around and being silly. They seemed to so much more interested in things outside of work. Isolated among them was my fellow, such a square, and I reached for his shoulder. “Tanakasan. Long time no see.” He turned to me. “I know,” he said, trying to keep his distance from me. “Aren’t you going home?”I asked. “It’s only nine,” he said, as if to look down on me. Only? Why not already? Then he went on: “If I left now, my boss, glaring accusingly at me, would tell me that my seniors are still working.”

I had heard about this department, where everyone worked from eight in the morning to midnight. They made this kind of insane rule and set the tone: the longer they work, the more excellent they are. Some young people, who was neither competent nor promising, enjoyed being with each other for longer, and others like Tanaka, who was loyal to Japanese standard, had a zany sense of obligation.

As far as I ever thought about it: They themselves were unaware that they were in a “black kigyou,” despite a take-home pay of 150,000 yen a month. You have probably heard Japanese work long hours and was not so productive; they do really like to go along with people to reassure themselves that they have felt secure. Unlike the great majority of Japanese, I was content to feel that I could be anyone doing anything. Maybe in a kind of “white kigyou.”

After the transfer of the property, I headed to the real estate agent to thank Yamada for his assistance. When I peeked in through the glass walls, a young staff gestured toward the narrow street. Before long I caught him smoking with his colleagues, middle-aged dudes, at the foot of the street in what seemed a hiding place. I could sense I was about to enter a quite different atmosphere—I was like an outsider―there may well had been confidential “information.”

That reminded me of the years I was going to the vocational school. Of the thirty-five or so student in my class, most of them were men. When recess came, mostly they were in the class room. A week later, I noticed most guys other than me disappearing from the room every single recess―I had been growing uneasy about where they were. But there were a few nerds left here. And the women, too, talked cheerfully together.

One day I asked a fellow where the guys were during recess. “We just smoke,” he said. Even though they were mostly minors, they went to the smoking area, where there was a heavy smoker, our classroom teacher who was an enthusiast eager to foster the students’ ability, and the guys, especially the teenagers, followed him to extract valuable “information” that would certainly be useful down the road. A recess is between classes, so they were there a lot. Rarely had I smoked, Rarely did I went there. It felt like I always fell behind the guys who puffed cigarettes.

It is the similar way in companies. Of course, it troubled me from time to time. It must have happened not only in smoking area, but in pubs and golf courses, where the men talk about their work relaxing, a kind of community like an old-boy network built up. I did not belong anywhere, and neither did most of the women. In the office the men behave like nothing happened, but those who did nowhere, every now and then, especially woman, become aware that something happened―in fact, some important matters had been made among the men, as though they were one step ahead of us, and besides I had never heard that the men in such a community could not get promoted. At that time what did the women feel?

I had an instinct that told me to keep out of a long talk with Yamada. They fell silent when I walked over them, and I could see a troubled expression on his face. I exchanged a few formal words with him, a smile coming over his face; I thanked him, bowing slightly and walking away. I was not interested in the middle-aged dudes who were confined to a little world of their own. Instead, I googled in English and learned the world.

It is ridiculous for the minors to imitate their teacher who smoke, but young men who want to go up have to adapt to their superior’s preference. I knew the outgoing middle-aged man being great at his job. He was a hyperactive. He hung out with his team member every day after work—drinking then playing slot machines at pachinko parlors. Plus he gambled on mahjong at his staff’s house until dawn and slept there. But many night they ended up going to kyabakura (men and women drink close together) in Nakasu. He enjoyed flirting with women, but at the same time he found opportunities to make sales.

Pachinko and mahjong―I can imagine―give off in dimly lit space a strong odor of the sketchy world. Cigarette and racket. Neither agree with me. On the other hand, I admired him for working with surprisingly enthusiasm every day, whether it was wholesome environment or not, while a nerdy person dallies over her work yawning because she watches the movie until the small hours, and as for me, I am not reckless―I was good at being alone. I would exercise, surf the internet, sleep by midnight and work as usual.

At some point, life forced me to get along with the new boss, who loved drinking with his colleagues. He went out for a drink with someone after work every day, so I kind of knew that my turn was coming up. He loves people and is easy to talk to; of course he treats us. Pretty soon I would been ordered out of the blue. “K. Let’s go for a drink today! Tell the others this.” I would see the excitement in his face and say: “Yes sir! we’ll accompany you.” 

I first I enjoyed the drinking party the way Japanese seemed to. Then, a week later, he asked us to again, but this time, after doing he took to a hostess bar only me. It is called snack, whose women relatively older than kyabakuras. It was well past midnight―there was something about convivial atmosphere around me that compelled me to talk with my boss and the lady of the house, or rather a portly man and an auntie. Pretending to enjoy myself, I was tired of the whole business for a sense of duty, and in the end, he said cheerfully, “K. Let’s have ramen to call it a night.” Screw you! I have to wake up at 6:30 a.m. while he dozes off at CEO’s office until noon. Let me go home, please. Please. 

Then, the next week we drank with my boss again. I knew that he just took advantage of me, as though I had been given a mandate: “Whenever I wanna drink, you must follow me.” That was the stint in the bar I hated the most―take a back seat, serve his drink, listen to his glory days, then say, bowing deeply “Thank you very much for today.” I hated it so much. I hated someone who flattered and sucked up to a person who had power. I never do that. I am never going to do. That is my pride.

“K. Drinking!” he said out of nowhere, feeling elated, like it was the natural thing. I was not the kind of person like him, nor was I a slave to the company. “I’m truly sorry, sir. I have things to take care of,” I said, politely. For a moment he looked both bewildered and a little bit smug. “Oh, I see,” he said, soberly. However, I could see a forlorn figure on his back, as if to feel betrayed. Sure enough, since then, I had never ever been asked to. 

I was telling you that I was left out, so you will understand what a stretch it was. 

December 2019

This was the first time I went to the office of the bank. A representative of the agency politely ushered me into a corner room. There were books, files and documents everywhere, stacked on shelves, piled on the rectangular table. In the room were a rep of the agency, a judicial scrivener, a seller, a bank employee and me. Yamada was absent because he was a sales rep. The seller is Dutch. He ran an investment company in Tokyo, spoke fluent Japanese and behaved like a Japanese.

The rep handed me a clean white paper bag, as if to give an expensive gift. Some pudgy files I took out from the bag and laid them on the table. He sat down across from me, and he picked up one of them, opening it to the section. The Dutch was sitting next to him crossing his legs, while my posture had become upright to make me look good. The rep started to read important matters about the property. Of course I just knew what to do the next. It was a lot to handle, learned in Japan where I had done many procedure at public office, banks, car dealerships, school, workplace, etc. 

At that time, the IT Minister of Japan was the chairman of the diet members supporting inkan: name seal. It is also called hanko, which is equivalent to Western signature. He was seventy eight years old. Maybe he managed to use Twitter. Ironically, that of Taiwan was thirty eight; he was a genius programmer, Audrey Tang.

I was ready to put my seal somewhere, holding my inkan. He turned a page; I stamped my name neatly where I have to do so. After doing the same thing about five times, I caught a glimpse of the Dutch cocking his head slightly with a stern look. The rep spoke a lot and I continued to stamp the pages, almost without thinking. Then I glanced up at the Dutch, leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes as though dozing. He could not help. I was jealous of Westerner being free-spirited, but can not the same way he did, because I am Japanese.

When I had been sitting tensely I found myself recalling a certain occasion, the client visit. At the entrance I took off my shoes, which I properly put together. Then, I walked slowly down the hallway into the living room, trying not to make my footsteps. For a second, I just stood aimlessly waiting for her to say something.

“Please have a seat,” said the client, a middle-aged woman, palm up, pointing her fingers at the couch―we Japanese would be urge to be humble―“No, no. I’m fine. Thank you very much,” I said. “I’ll bring you some tea.” “Please don’t bother.” Hesitating for a while, I slowly sat down with my hands on my knees, keeping myself upright. It is not like a Westerner talk with someone. No leaning. No crossing your legs.

She brought me a wooden tray holding a cup of green tea and Japanese sweets such as dango (rice dumplings) and set it before me. “Please help yourself,” she said. “I’m kind of sorry,” I faltered, bowing. Then, we got down to business. Maybe I took a sip of tea, or maybe not, until finally I ended the conversation with her. That’s all. Rarely had I touched them. It is just formality, but is the manners in Japan.

The rep still spoke something and I did not listen. I stamped the pages, and it seemed to go on endlessly, however, the Dutch was playing with his smartphone. I thought he was right. Just sitting here. Wasting his time. Feeling crappy. 

In Japan, it is ordinary to have many meetings like the report on the current situation, although they can be done by email. I always knew that they would be futile and I do not have potential to waste my time. Fortunately, it was great that smartphones had come into the world. It was two years ago (winter 2017)―I attended the meeting that seemed to be significant for everyone to gather. No purpose. At that time, the price of Bitcoin exploded, so I checked the movement of its price on my smartphone during such fucking conversation.

Of course I paid attention to what they talked about, trying not to lose their trust. After a while I sensed that an ugly woman glaring at me coldly―I wimped out and hid my phone instead, only to find myself having no courage to defy her. But you might want to do that as I did―in order to get your tasks done efficiently. If you could do so, I am just a wimp.

When Japanese language peeked out from the Dutchman’s phone, I filled with something awe, and at the same time someone said to me: “Please listen to him, sir.” “Sorry,” I said submissively, flinching for a moment and pretending to stare at the page of the file, and I stamped and stamped and stamped. Really nobody gave a shit. I felt stupid, because I did as I was told, as so many Japanese do.

I was like, “That’s enough. I’m tired. Don’t read. I read home.”  How long are you going to let me do this? These stupid persons around me, except for the Dutch, would just think it make a lot of sense to do that―I was sick not only of Inkan but also of their mind that they took it for granted.

Maybe twenty times or more I would have stamped the pages. Once everything was done, these dude left me behind and sucked up to the Dutch, who discussed business on the phone: “Hai. Imakara Tokyo ni modorimasu.” “Yes. I’m coming back to Tokyo now.” They huddled around him, whispered to each other: “Who wouldn’t think he is Japanese?” But he completely disregarded them and gave me a quick handshake and disappearing.

Two months after going back to Japan, I went to the real estate agent in Fukuoka city. Luckily, I had a knowledgeable middleman, Yamada who helped me purchase a resale condo that was likely to rise property value. After a few days, I walked with him to the condo to view it. I enjoyed talking to a man who was doing what he loved. He loved architectures, so he worked there. On the other hand, he took heavy losses in his previous business and his company went bankrupt.

Failure is an answer. I respected Yamada for having faced the challenge and learned the consequences. At that time, I was thinking of starting my own business, where there was a lively town with opportunities for growth. Fukuoka city seemed to be a fresh challenge ahead of me. I wished to make a virtue out of my limitations.

The real challenge was finding what l really wanted to do. I love English. It is one thing and quit another to teach English as a business. I knew that the basis of business is to imitate successful people, however, I did not like banality, wanting to build a blue ocean where I can reign supreme. I was having a hard time, a negative current, doing that since I left the company.

Japanese would say to those who try something new: “You can do it. I wish you the best.” This is “Tatemae”: showing what he is supposed to say in public. But I knew that in the back of their mind they mocked: “Life is not so easy,” “You’re going to screw up,” and “I’m not foolish like you.” Of course, they never say that to avoid hurting you by telling Honne: your true feeling. After the years, they would say in whisper: “See? I knew it.” “Yeah. He is over.”

Basically, Japanese is afraid of failure. Let’s say a few women, to release their stress, goes out together for dinner after work. Being pointless stories endlessly, their conversation would become lively: seeing who and who are a couple, grumbling about her husband or boyfriend, complaining her co-workers and small pay. There is a way to make it work. And then that is the most fun part: wanting to know who reprimanded who, who will take responsibility for what, who will get an ignominious transfer where. They would say: “Really?” “Incredible,” “How come?” The one thing they have in common is that they are glad it is not them. As the result, they unite and cheer up.

That is like some heartless act, only nobody support you. Trying new things is that we are bound to make mistakes Japanese are not tolerant of. For that reason, I did not dare tell Yamada that I might start my business. “I’ve yet to decide what I am going to do,” I said. “First I will live here. Fukuoka airport is near, so I can easily go overseas. If I found another place to live, I would rent out this room.” “I knew a person who lived on passive income,” said Yamada.

You would first invest in small property, a room for one person. Over time, you would save up money from the rent. Then, investment in a second one, a small room. Now you had two room, from which you receive the rent. You would save up and add a third one, a slightly larger property. Over years, you would figure that you broke even for the first one, which you can sell for money. You would keep trying to research good properties that you benefit from. Maybe four. And five. Yes! You do not need to work anymore.

“I think it is reasonable,” I laughed a little. “It’s a big decision. You should sleep on it and talk to someone. It is possible to change your mind,” he said soberly, never having tried hard sell on me. I supposed most sales representatives would not say this. They would say with a modest smile: ”What would you like to do? If you don’t decide as soon as possible, it will sell.” Like they try to unsettle me. They want me to purchase anyway.

Yamada wanted me to be happy by offering a property that met my needs. He stressed the ties with landlords having a lot of information that you should know before you buy another property. It was creeping me out even though I found it inevitable. I do not like attending work shops; exchanging business cards, smiling, talking, smiling, talking, smiling and bowing. I must pretend to be a gentleman. Then hovering, I would get nowhere and find myself alone. Ugh. That sucks. But I will have to do better. I did trust Yamada and wished to be on good term with him from then on.